


This War of Mine

by DeanWinchesterWearsMakeup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Plot, Slow Burn, Survival, War, eventual destiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24667030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanWinchesterWearsMakeup/pseuds/DeanWinchesterWearsMakeup
Summary: Dean, Sam, and Castiel are innocent civilians desperately trying to stay alive during a lengthy battle for their town in a war they don't understand and aren't permitted to fight in.This story begins where it might have quickly ended for anybody less resourceful, brave, or determined than our little trio. Winter has arrived with a bang, and starvation is imminent due to near-constant shelling and snipers making it impossible to venture out during the day.Dean has the grit. Castiel has the cunning. Sam has the compassion.But until they can learn to work together instead of fighting about every single decision, it's highly unlikely they'll live to see peace again...
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Day 31

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> This fic is inspired by and based on the excellent PC game "This War of Mine" by 11 bit studios. I highly recommend it. You might want to google image search it to see screenshots of the setting, because that's exactly what I'm working with here.
> 
> This story has no direct relation to any episode of SPN, but is artistically closest to episode "The End."
> 
> Destiel will occur in much later chapters. Didn't want spoil anything, but...didn't want to turn anyone off, either. If that's not your thing, please leave now, no question asked :)

**Sam:**

It doesn't take a vivid imagination, complicated descriptors, or the inclusion of many colors, to describe this bleak place: a narrow, grey, four-story duplex (five floors with the dubious basement that used to hold the laundry machines). Imagine not a single wall unpunctured by a bullet, a rocket, a shell…or an angry fist. Probably Dean's.

No water, no heat, no electricity, no gas. We use candles freely, not worried about what would happen if they fell over in some act of carelessness. It's not like there's anything left to burn. All but the front and back doors have been chopped up for wood to use as fuel when early winter came two weeks ago. All but two rooms are devoid of furniture. One is the kitchen that leads to a back alley. The other room is just beside it, a former dining room with only one hole in the wall and no windows, and therefore the easiest to protect and keep warm. But also the darkest and the dampest. 

That room is where I spend 16 hours a day. Sometimes 24, if the weather is too poor to go scavenging, which is often.

Dean has fixed our two little rooms up since we arrived, and now the snow doesn’t land on our faces as we sleep, but I still despise every miserable inch of this place.

**\---**

**Castiel:**

How long has this siege lasted? It's hard to say. Time loses meaning when your every thought is occupied with struggling for survival. Day and night, the city is crawling with snipers. Shelling is becoming an ordinary business. Phones don't work; they haven't for months. There is a drastic shortage of food and medications. Three quarters of the city is homeless, if you could even call what's left of the rubble "homes" for those more fortunate. The only surviving buildings are occupied by two sets of faces we have never seen, sharing a hatred we can’t begin to understand.

Sam and Dean Winchester are the guardians of our four-story pile of rubble. They're brothers, but not friends. I met them while we were all scavenging for supplies at dead of night in a smoldering heap of a supermarket. Maybe “met” is not the right word. What do you call it when you smooth-talk someone out of shooting you in the face for sneaking up behind him and trying to lock him in a meat freezer?

Sam caught me before I could succeed. I hadn't intended on hurting Dean, just getting him out of the way for a few minutes so I could grab some food and run. They only spared me because I am (used to be?) Lawrence's mayor. Dean thought I could be useful as a negotiator when traders happened by to barter, which they do from time to time. But prices nowadays are ruthless, and I proved little better than Sam’s puppy dog eyes at getting a deal. Now I'm just another homeless victim of war, teamed up with two grumpy brothers, incapable of doing little more than hoping they don’t decide to shoot me in my sleep for being a burden on our dwindling food supply.

Emotionally I'm in a better place than Sam, but not by much. I don't know why he and Dean don't get along. They don't tell me anything, they just order me around when I'm needed. From what I can gather, they have major unresolved daddy issues. There are moments of warmth now and then, and a certain level of absurd overprotectiveness all the time, but mostly they just snipe at each other. Maybe because there’s nothing else to do. We all sleep in various shifts, so I do at least have some peace when they're not awake at the same time.

I get along well with Sam, who is a fellow runner. Or used to be, rather. He’s been sidelined after being slashed in the ankle during a late night dash for fresh water three days ago, and the wound doesn’t look like it’s ever going to close up. Thankfully, we did have bandages and medicine on hand from the time Dean broke into the hospital’s garage and cleared out the back of a military ambulance while the severely wounded passenger was still inside, the medics nowhere in sight for the three precious minutes it took him to steal everything except for the dwindling roll of gauze holding the patient together.

He hadn’t told Sam _exactly_ how he got those supplies, but Sam knew anyway by the haunted look Dean carried afterwards for a few days. Dean said the man had been a soldier, not a civilian, but...he wasn't actually sure. It didn't matter to Sam at all, and the incident became another long-drawn out argument that was brought up at least twice a day. Even as Dean bandaged Sam’s foot and poured alcohol over the gaping wound, they bickered incessantly about it.

Whereas Sam’s every thought can be read on his face, Dean is a blank slate. I’ve learned he likes to cook, shoot guns, and boss people around. That’s about it. Sam and I take great pleasure in making Dean feel accomplished about his cooking, even when it’s dismal because of the quality of the supplies. I get the feeling that receiving praise was rare for Dean long before the war was even a thing. I'm guessing that has something to do with their daddy issues. But Dean’s smile gifts me with the only moments of happiness I can find in this damned war.

**\---**

**Dean:**

I’m starting to warm up to Castiel since my very first entry in this journal, have to admit it. Of the three of us, you'd think Mr. Big Shot Mayor would be the one having the hardest time adjusting to sharing a rat for dinner or drinking pond water in the very same house where he was a VIP guest a few times, red carpet treatment and everything. Champagne, caviar too, probably.

But you'd be wrong if you thought he couldn’t handle it. He never complains. 

I mentioned before that Cas is also a skilled scavenger, nearly as good as me. Except for that time back at the supermarket, but he learned a valuable lesson back there. Now he’s patient, and quiet. Like, freakishly quiet. He once spent four hours crouching under a ladder, waiting for exactly the right moment to dash out and escape the soldiers. I would have gone mad. Sam nearly did while waiting for him to return back to the house. Long story short? I’m glad I didn’t shoot Cas after all.

And then there’s Sam, the exact opposite of caution and prudence. His ankle was bashed in by a surprised sniper during a reckless raid three nights ago. He still hasn't healed, but he's lucky he survived me not killing him for being so stupid. Not that I’m perfect. Hell, all three of us have been injured while scavenging, but we press on. We have to, because there's no other option but to starve or freeze. 

I keep trying to make the house pleasant, but...it’s tough going without any materials. We have gained a chair since I last wrote, carefully maintained by me and strictly reserved for Sam (when he's awake) so he doesn’t have to lay on the floor 16 hours a day. It’s also easier for him to soak his foot from a sitting position.

In a couple days I hope to have another bed made that just Sam and I can share so that Cas will have his own. But I need more nails.

Update on the radio: still haven’t found any stations that are broadcasting yet. I had to go after Sam for being too rough with the damned thing. If he breaks the crank handle, we’ll never be able to get a station again, broadcasting or not. 

As I write this, we've sat a few days in near-silence, save for the sounds of the snipers and occasional shells. We learned four days ago that not hearing footsteps out the back door means intruders have a better chance of swiping all that's left of your canned food during the day. I chased them off, but it was too late. They took all but four cans, which are now gone. We have nothing to eat but a box of crackers. The kitchen will not be unguarded again once the new bed is ready and moved next to the fridge.

Sam was whining earlier about having nothing to read. He and Castiel are really missing the books we traded away for those cans. I don’t give a shit about books. I just want a cigarette. 

**\----**

**Sam:**

The structures still left in Lawrence sometimes burn, and this building - as punctured as it is - allows smoke from the ruins to drift inside and reach our nostrils. I wonder if Dean pretends it smells like tobacco. He's been depressed ever since our stash ran out, although he won't admit it. 

This morning, Castiel and I nearly lost our minds from the silence and spent an hour trying to find a working radio station. Dean walked in to see us playing with the dials and lost his shit. I have yet to find where he stashed the damned thing. He was right – we have to pay attention to our surroundings. I don't even notice the shelling anymore, though. But I hear every footstep in the leaves outside our walls. 99% of the time it’s some animal or another. The 1% is why you constantly have to stay on guard.

I’m never really sure what time it is, having traded my watch collection for food in the early days of the siege. I’ve kept a careful accounting of the days, though. It's December 13. 

I often ask Dean if he needs anything, knowing I have nothing to offer. 

"Food would be awesome," my brother answers listlessly, not lifting his head to look at me where he's writing in his own journal, as I am now in my little convalescent chair with my ankle soaking in water that Dean has painstakingly heated for me three times already today. I peek over at Castiel, sound asleep in his bed, resting up from some kind of minor respiratory ailment that took hold of him overnight. I’m glad they both took up my suggestion to write. Ever since I snagged a box of notebooks and pens from the school, Dean and I haven’t fought as much.

"We have to send Castiel out tonight, whether he likes it or not," Dean mumbles as he follows my glance to the sleeping man. "Alone. I need to stay here to guard the place as long as you can't walk." 

Dean is right, again. If Castiel was on guard here and had to fire his gun to protect us, chances were good that he'd somehow end up shooting himself. Or me. He’s absolutely hopeless with a weapon of any kind, as we had discovered in horror the first night we were raided. 

"I'm not going alone," Castiel mumbles from his bed.

"You're going, and that’s final," Dean warns him sternly. 

Dean often reminds Cas that he is our guest, and therefore at our mercy for shelter and protection. He loves the power he holds over the former mayor of Lawrence. I used to protest at such threats, but now I'm secretly grateful for Dean’s resolve at times like this. Because lord knows I could never force such a clumsy creature out in the wild with no protection except a well-used bulletproof vest and a bike helmet. 

I tell Castiel that I'm sorry, that I'll be healed soon and happy to go with him, but he just glares at me. 

He will go. He doesn’t have the guts to defy Dean, even when I wish he would.

If we’re lucky, Cas will come back with food for Dean to cook. Maybe he'll also be able to grab some building materials or other supplies. If he's unlucky, he'll come back with a knife wound or bullet in his leg. Or perhaps he won't come back at all. Killed on sight, because nobody on any side of this damned war has the resources to feed prisoners. 

I look back over at Dean, who has made his way over to the ammo box yet again. He’s obsessive about his Colt, our single mode of defense except for three small butterfly knives. One of which Castiel already managed to nearly sever a finger with, of course.

I ask Dean how many bullets we have left, although I already know the answer. Thirteen, he says. He fired five of them during the last raid, and I shot six during the one before that. And we expected to be raided again tonight, not that we have much left to take. 

Then he looks outside, and back at me with a raised eyebrow. It’s snowing again – thank god. We’re almost out of water because he insisted on using nearly all of it to soak my foot. As he grabs the wok we use to cook soup and runs outside, Castiel groans and looks at me. He says he’s sick, and asks me to get the medication from the kitchen. He doesn’t want Dean to know. I remind him I can’t walk, and he falls silent. Until he starts coughing a few minutes later.

Dean returns a veritable eternity later with the wok packed full of snow. He’s shivering underneath dad’s old leather jacket, and his eyes are dull. I ask him to get Cas the bottle of cold medicine. Which of course necessitates me explaining why, much to his dismay. His answer is thoroughly predictable.

“I’ll go out tonight, then. Swear to god, Castiel, if you don’t protect my brother properly, I really am going to shoot you in the face this time. It’s you or them. You hear me?”

Castiel nods, and I feel my face flush hot again as Dean turns to glare at me. But instead of reminding me what an idiot I am for getting myself hurt, he simply turns to go get the medication. His shoulders are more sloped than they were yesterday, his energy markedly down, and there’s nothing I can do but stay still and pray my wound will heal quickly.


	2. Day 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally gets really good news, but his already perilous happiness is about to get cut short when he learns about the dire information Sam has been withholding from him.

**Sam:**

We didn't get raided last night. Thank god. Dean returned with all the right things - a couple days worth of food, a makeshift water filter, and some really expensive looking jewelry to use for trading. But he wasted a lot of room in his bag carrying a broken rifle (of all things!!) that he immediately asked me to work on. No, _ordered_ me to work on. Like I'm some kind of gunsmith or something? We don't even have any nails so he can finish the new bed, but he thinks I can just Winchester a Winchester out of the blue. Idiot.

But anyway, I had no choice, because Dean gets what Dean wants. It wasn't fixable, and he admitted he knew that, but I did manage to reassemble it to a point where it kind of looks like it works in case we need to flash it at someone to scare them off. I hope my mickey mouse job is enough and they don't notice there's no trigger.

\---

**Dean:**

Sam's still giving me grief about the ambulance raid. Bitching at me even as he sits there with his stupid foot in our precious drinking water. Brat should be grateful. It's taking a lot more these days for me not to pop him in his boy-band face. I'll never get over him being so reckless that night. And that's not my definition - he was the one who admitted it. I almost wish he would have lied about how it happened so I could be angry at someone else.

Really hoping a trader comes by today so I can get cigarettes. In the meantime, I get to sit here and listen to Castiel cough every 5 seconds. Then again, I guess me smoking would be the last thing he needs right now, anyway.

\---

**Castiel:**

Bartering prices are still getting higher every day. I didn't score any cigarettes from the trader, and of course Dean bitched me out for that. But we now have some electrical parts, a dozen nails, and a lock pick. Dean immediately started to work on the bed despite my objections that he needed to sleep after a night spent creeping around in rubble with not even a shovel for assistance. As usual, he reminded me who's in charge and ignored my advice. Unless he finishes the bed today, one of us will be sleeping on the floor tonight because he's totally wrecked our already precarious sleeping schedule.

The trader promised to come back tomorrow with gun parts, which he says are plentiful and cheap at the moment. Maybe even enough to fix the rifle. Dean immediately perked up at that and is almost cheerful right now as he pounds in nails with a real hammer that Sam had found in the basement on their very first day here.

It's slightly crazy that I still haven't figured out whether Dean actually hates me or not. Today has been a trial. One moment he was ready to throw me out on my ass in the snow for asking him to stop yelling, the very next moment he was hovering over me with hot tea and insisting I drink every last drop to help me get better.

I can't figure him out. Sam says I should stop trying and save myself the grief, like he did years ago.

\---

**Sam:**

Dean has abandoned his effort to finish the bed and is now across the street helping a couple of guys board up their walls. They stopped by while I was sleeping to ask for help. It didn't surprise me that Dean answered the door for them, but a huge part of me wishes he wouldn't have. Even though we haven't heard any snipers on our street in a couple days, it's still too dangerous to be out in the daytime. If he doesn't come back, Castiel and I are completely screwed. And we've never seen these two guys before, either. Who knows what they're really up to? I'm suspicious, but trying not to drive myself crazy waiting for him to come back.

\---

**Castiel:**

My secret disgust toward Dean raiding an ambulance with a patient inside has wavered now that I may have enough medication to get me through this chest infection, or whatever it is. He most likely saved my life. I can only hope and pray it doesn't develop into pneumonia. Sam's disgust about the incident isn't so secret, but maybe one day he'll grudgingly admit his appreciation for having proper bandages. (I still believe in miracles, apparently.)

As I predicted, a messy fight ensued between the brothers upon Dean's return from the neighbor's house at nightfall. The same old overprotective posturing as last time. I'm shocked that Sam objected to Dean helping them, but I stayed out of it as usual. They pretty much seemed on the verge of killing each other until Dean abruptly announced he had some good news: he'd exchanged his handyman work for a queen size mattress, a large bag of rice, and six books.

I've never seen Sam shut up so fast. It was incredibly satisfying.

Dean's so proud of himself that I feel like this victory might just get him through the rest of the week without falling into another deep depression. Me too, perhaps. Even Sam had nothing snotty to say about it for once. They'll pick up the items in the morning; in the meantime they've set to pulling out all the nails on the frame Dean was building, and we'll probably burn the wood at some point or repurpose it. It will be so good to have my own bed again; the mere thought of it has brought me to tears three times already.

I'm pleased to report that our enormous stash of candles is still intact after several raids, still safely locked away in the basement. I laughed when I first saw them, until Sam told me that when the brothers first arrived to the house, they immediately set to carrying its most valuable contents down into the basement on the first night. That endeavor started (and ended) with the evacuation of six dozen comically large "Yankee Candles" from the attic, much to Sam's annoyance. He'd wanted to start with blankets and towels; he fought harshly with Dean about it. Dean won, because of course he won. He always does.

The duplex was nearly leveled by a random artillery shelling as the brothers were stacking the last of these candles in the corner of the basement, still bickering. Now, they are our most precious commodity besides food and water. I suspect they will last at least a year even with no attempt at rationing them.

The towels and blankets Sam wanted were still intact after the shelling, and are also locked away in the basement. We have little chance of freezing to death, as long as these walls stand.

Sam doesn't question his brother's foresight anymore, but little else is sacred. They've argued about half a dozen other things today, at least. But not about one thing: Sam is still bleeding way too much, and he's been hiding it. I told him to tell Dean, or I will.

**Dean:**

I'm going back out again tonight against Sam's wishes, despite not having nearly enough sleep. Time is of the essence, because I raided the old villa again last night. The one with the old couple living on the 3rd floor. Thank god I had the lock pick with me, because I discovered a deep freeze in the basement that was repurposed to store some incredibly valuable dry goods. I picked the lock to the basement, then to the room where it was stored, and finally the lock to the freezer itself. Hopefully they haven't discovered it yet, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. They had enough supplies to feed us all for a month.

They'll certainly discover my handiwork within two days, since the room seems like it's visited often. So if I don't get to the old villa tonight, I may never have the chance at those goods again once the old folks wise up and move them upstairs to safety.

**Sam:**

There's nothing in the world that I want to do less than ask Dean to go back to the hospital tonight, but the time has come. It's 9pm and I haven't stopped bleeding even once today. I'm getting weak, and very tired, and even if Cas didn't threaten me I'd ask anyway. If Dean can just grab a needle and thread, and maybe some alcohol for sterilization, we can get this done. Hell, he might even be able to barter it away with the last roll of bandages. The same ones he stole from them four days ago. Because I don't need bandages, really - we have a ton of towels downstairs.

Honestly, I'm scared to death. What if they caught him on video? What if they're watching for him? He told Cas the hospital is surrounded by military - not militia, or bandits - and god knows what side they're on. Hell - I mean, for that matter, we don't even know what side _we're_ on.

Dean will agree to do it, I know he will. But if he can't do it…if he gets caught…this might be my last journal entry, because I can't hold on much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you have ten seconds to spare, thank you <3


End file.
